The Eleventh Hour
by Crunch
Summary: “It is in the final hour, the eleventh hour, that men are made and heroes are born.” Two of our favorite boys are reunited in the midst of battle. R/R!


The Eleventh Hour- by Crunch  
  
Set in WW1. I may have taken some liberties with ages, I don't remember, but hey it's my story, I'll manipulate if I want to. . . manipulate if I want to. . . *hums the tune*. It's not nearly as fuzzy as most of my little one chappies, and it's really sort of weird and pointless. but enjoy anyways. REVIEW!!!  
  
Oh yes, for once I remember the disclaimer. It's not mine, don't sue, yada yada.  
  
*.*.*.*  
  
"It is in the final hour, the eleventh hour, that men are made and heroes are born."  
  
* * *  
  
"Incoming, men!" The harsh wailing of sirens sliced through the muggy night air, thick and smoky with the stench of burning petrol.  
  
Through the din, a lone soldier crawled on his belly across the barbed wire studded, bullet riddled mud of no-mans-land, cursing under his breath as he scrambled frantically towards the minimal safety of the trenches. The blazing fires scorched his hair and brought stinging tears to his cobalt- gray eyes, eyes wracked with a pain and grief that comes with knowing the evils of war far before one's time. They boy sobbed for breath as a hailstorm of falling missiles shook the ground beneath him. Gathering his last ounce of strength, he rolled into the safety of the earth-carved ditches. Home sweet home.  
  
"Good ta see ya, brudder. I thought you was long dead." A familiar accent shouted above the clamor of battle. The exhausted soldier cracked open an eye to see one muscular, charred hand looming in front of his face.  
  
"No such luck." He coughed and, after another moments rest, accepted the help to his feet. Every bone in his body ached as if he'd been trampled by a tank. "How's life in the trench been treatin' ya, Skitts?" His friend chuckled dryly at the sound of the old alias.  
  
"Not bad, Conlon. I mean, da room soivice is kind of slow, an' dey keep fahgettin' ta leave a mint on me pillow, but udder den that. . ." The two reunited friends embraced in a shower of dust. "Good ta see youse, Spot. What are you doin' all da way over here? It must be miles from ya station." Spot sighed and shook his bloodied head.  
  
"It was da Japs. Took out half me unit in a brawl at Baton. All fah twen'y feet of Gawd damned no-man's-land." The two lapsed into a silence occasionally broken by a well-aimed grenade.  
  
"I heard you was killed in battle." Skittery searched his friend for signs of injury.  
  
"Naw, just wounded. I got back from medical leave a few days ago, jus' before the attack. Welcome back me, ey?" The two settled down, pressing their backs against the damp wall of earth. Grunting as a sudden craving hit him, Spot searched his pocket for a tarnished lighter, his only remaining worldly possession. "Ya know, I wouldn't turn you down for a cig."  
  
"Sure, pal. Hey, CHARLIE, ya got da cigarette?" Skittery hollered across the sea of crouched bodies. A dirtied man, crouched so lo that his buttons left imprints in the mud, waved his hand and pointed to the cigarette dangling from his lips.  
  
"Take care of this one, Gideon!" He passed the smoke down the line.  
  
Spot chuckled and hunkered down as another explosion rocked the trench. "What, you boys only got one smoke between da lot a youse?"  
  
"Yeah. We lost da udder one yesterday."  
  
"How?"  
  
"We lost da bum smokin' it." Skittery sighed. "He didn't have da decency ta hand it off before 'is foot found da landmine."  
  
"Shame. Smokes is hard ta come by now a days."  
  
Skittery turned to his friend, suddenly. "Ey, Spotty, you said you was on medical leave?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Did you. . . I mean, have you hoid from the old crowd when you was back in New Yawk?" He nodded, wincing at the memory.  
  
"Soah did. Let's see. . . Blink got a medal of honor, ya know. Remember Blink?"  
  
"How could I fahget! What'd he do?"  
  
"Threw hisself on a grenade. He figured one man killed was better den da whole squadron." Spot took a painful drag of nicotine, expelling the toxic cloud of smoke in one long, shuddering breath, curling upward towards the heavens. "Dey sent da medal to 'is mudder, in New Joisy."  
  
"I didn't know he had a mudder." Skittery grunted around the lump in his throat.  
  
"Yup, an seven sistahs too. Who knew?" Again, the two lapsed into silence, flooded with memories of a boy, with straw colored hair and a jaunty leather eye patch, grinning down from a countertop as he fantasized about the Mayor's daughter. He would be missed, if there was anyone left by the end of the war too miss him.  
  
"Any udder news?" Skittery mumbled to hide the break in his voice.  
  
"Well," Spot took another drag on the cigarette to jog his memory. "I talked ta Crutchy. You remembah, da crip?" Skittery winced at the ugliness of the word used to describe his friend, but nodded just the same. "Course, he weren't eligible fah da draft, what wid his leg an' all."  
  
"Yeah, what'd 'e say?"  
  
"Well, 'e works in a telegram office now, since 'e always was a good reader. He picks up news about da old crowd from time ta time. Remembah Mush?"  
  
Skittery grinned at the picture of an always smiling, curly haired boy the name conjured. "Yeah, course." The grin faded as he was struck by a sudden, awful thought. "He aint dead, is he?"  
  
"Nah, alive an' kickin'. Walks wid a limp though. Got too close to an enemy bullet, so dey sent 'im home. He's got hisself a wife now."  
  
"No kiddin?"  
  
"Yup. Oh, an' Specs got himself a real high position, outta da line o' fire. Somethin' in navy intelligence."  
  
"Eh, 'e always was a smart kid." Skitts coughed as a shower of soil rained down on his head. He relieved Spot of the cigarette as the boy craned his neck, scanning the trench for something, or someone.  
  
"Ey, wasn't Jacky' boy in your patrol? He . . . 'e didn't get hisself killed, did 'e?"  
  
"Aint you hoid? Jack got promoted. He's lieutenant Sullivan now. He's prolly up at the officer's ball, mixin' wid all dem muckity-mucks."  
  
"No kiddin. Who'd have thought; our Jacky-boy, too good fah da trenches."  
  
Skittery took a long, slow drag of the communal cigarette, ducking lower as a fresh volley rocked the torn earth, threatening to burry the lot of them. Sadly, the soldier glanced up into the murky night sky. Even this far out into the scorched and abandoned country side, the stars hid behind an all consuming cloud of dust and gasses. He smiled wistfully, with out a trace of bitterness in his voice.  
  
"Jack was too good fah da trenches all his life. Da world just didn't know it."  
  
Just then, a well thrown hand grenade came barreling out of the night and found it's mark, burying the world in silence.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Gosh. Where did that come from? Ah well, draw your own conclusion about the ending while you flame/ review/ laugh uproariously. 


End file.
